


Servants of the Gods

by ryme_intrinseca



Category: The Mummy Series
Genre: Backstory, Canon Compliant, F/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:35:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26175811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryme_intrinseca/pseuds/ryme_intrinseca
Summary: Imhotep nods. “We are all servants of the gods.”Her mouth twists as if tasting something unpleasant. A flash of emotion on her face. “Some of us are slaves.”
Relationships: Anck Su Namun/Imhotep
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	Servants of the Gods

**Author's Note:**

  * For [girlsarewolves](https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlsarewolves/gifts).



> Dear GirlsAreWolves, I was browsing the prompts for FFFX and your request really inspired me. I hope you enjoy this!

Imhotep is awake when he hears the slap of sandal-shod feet on the floor. He smiles into the warm, still darkness at the grumbled complaints of his fellow priests as the acolytes shake them from slumber. Flames sputter in oil lamps, bringing faint gleams of light. Enough illumination for the priests to fold the sheet at the bottom of their beds, enough for them to dress in their kilts and shawls.

They emerge into the dawn, the air cool and fresh. The priests follow him, some stumbling, still half-asleep; others striding to catch him up, eager to make a good impression. They’re wasting their time. It is not Imhotep who chooses the servants of Osiris, it is the god himself.

The waters of the sacred lake ripple as a breeze moves over its surface. The smell of river mud and vegetation is chased away by scented oil and natron. Imhotep disrobes and, naked, leads his brethren into the lake. The sleepy are shocked into wakefulness; those already roused suck their teeth and hiss or yelp.

Imhotep wades in, the water pushing against his flesh, surrounding him. He drops to his knees and plunges beneath the lake. His heartbeat accelerates. He holds his breath, sensing the darkness of the world beyond. Just when he thinks he’ll surrender, slip over and join his god, his body takes charge. He stands, breaks the surface, draws in deep, cleansing breaths.

He is reborn.

All around him, the other priests are splashing, talking, washing and shaving themselves and each other. The sky is lightening, a faint line of pink forming on the horizon and the stars starting to dwindle. This is his favourite time of the day, the last few moments before dawn. Before Ra emerges from the Underworld and sails across the sky. This is a time of promise and possibility.

He claps his hands, and his brethren file out of the lake, dripping onto the limestone pavement. Acolytes dry them off with clean sheets, and then fresh linen is brought. Imhotep waves away the assistance and wraps a short kilt about his hips. He runs a hand over his head, pleased with the smoothness of his scalp. Now for the cosmetics. Kohl to outline his eyes and to draw in his brows. Scented oil to anoint his body. A collar of gold and lapis lazuli, bracelets of gold set with carnelian.

He is ready.

His fellow priests look to him for guidance, even as they follow a ritual unchanged for centuries. Imhotep passes between the pylons into the outer courtyards, where later the petitioners will gather seeking the god’s favour. Through the second courtyard, where only those favoured by birth or circumstance may hope to tread. Beyond that is the hypostyle hall, its painted columns reaching high.

Very few are admitted to this place. As they progress deeper into the temple, Imhotep’s entourage sheds acolytes and junior priests. The sound of brushes sweeping the ground breaks the early morning hush. Then, as he enters the most sacred of sanctuaries, the attendant lector priests intone the first hymn.

Incense drifts in the air, smoke wreathing the doors of the shrine. Imhotep pauses before it and holds out a hand for a knife. The God’s Third Servant proffers the blade, and Imhotep cuts through the seal. The lector priests begin another song, calling praise for Lord Osiris.

The doors open. Imhotep steps inside, gaze fixed to the shrine that stands in the centre of the small room. Light is filtering through the small, east-facing windows. The god is awakening.

Behind him, the God’s Third and Fourth Servants are preparing tables laid with food and wine, with gifts of incense, with linen and cosmetics and jewels. Imhotep ignores them, his focus wholly on his god. Murmuring prayers and greetings, he opens the ebony-wood doors of Osiris’s shrine and bows low.

The statue of the god is carved from green stone, the eyes inlaid with precious gems. When Imhotep looks up, Osiris seems to smile upon him. Perhaps it was merely the flickering of the lamplight; regardless, Imhotep’s heart swells at the sign and he calls down blessings. With his usual care and devotion, he tenderly undresses and bathes the statue of the god before selecting fresh linens.

He has done this many times before, dressing the god and choosing jewels to adorn the statue, applying cosmetics and anointing it with fragrant oil. Always he feels a sense of peace and belonging. The king, Seti, the Living Horus, may command his body and opinion, but here with Lord Osiris, he feels only boundless freedom.

The God’s Third and Fourth Servants come forward now with offerings of food and drink to delight the senses of Osiris. These are left in an appropriate place in case the god wishes to partake. The priests leave, bowing.

Imhotep remains behind a moment longer. Hand on heart, he speaks the final words of the ritual, then takes a soft-bristled brush and sweeps the floor, erasing even his own footsteps. He backs out of the shrine, closes the doors, and knots a cord around the handles. He presses his seal into a ball of red Nile clay, and the morning veneration is over.

In two hours he is expected at the palace, to attend His Majesty the King. He will sit in fine chambers and listen to petitioners, to architects, to doctors, to courtiers, and he will be silent unless given leave to speak. The conversations he has with Seti in the recesses of his imagination will remain unsaid, for though he holds a trusted position and high rank, he is still a servant.

The sun is rising, spilling light across the land and turning the river into a path of gold. Imhotep looks towards the palace. Dawn has sent the slaves and servants bustling about their allotted tasks. Fires are lit, water drawn, preparations made for the day ahead. Guards patrol the flat roofs and walls.

On a balcony overlooking the river, he can just make out the figure of a woman swathed in a dark cloak. She stands perfectly still, her face tilted towards the sun. Below her is a hive of activity, but she is motionless. Then she flings off her cloak and stands, arms outstretched.

Ra gilds her with his rays. She gleams. She is golden.

Imhotep stares. He cannot make out her identity from this distance, but he feels that he knows her. Yet how could this be? He has little to do with the women of Seti’s household. The Great Royal Wife had sought his counsel on a few occasions over the years, the last time being to lobby for the Princess Nefertiri to be given a position as priestess of Amun.

He tries not to entangle himself in politics. It is enough that he must lead the daily meeting of the temple brethren. As God’s First Servant, High Priest of Osiris, it falls to him to settle complaints and soothe worries, to hear reports about the profitability of the god’s estates, and to accept bequests from wealthy patrons.

Today he must also see to the preparations in hand for the Festival of Osiris at Abydos. He is expecting a letter from the God’s Second Servant, a man installed by his predecessor. Vainglorious and hungry for power, the God’s Second Servant has no genuine calling and would serve Sobek as easily as he serves Osiris.

Imhotep believes that when a god claims a servant, you belong to the divine one for all eternity. It is a thought that brings him much comfort.

~~~

Anck-su-namun lies awake, staring up at the coffered ceiling. In the glow cast by the shielded lamps, she can see gods wheeling through the heavens illustrated above her. Painted divinities, their skin blue and gold; deities on solar barques, or descending to the Underworld, or creating mankind. Hieroglyphs and astrological symbols close about her, press down upon her.

She closes her eyes. The reminder of all those gods is painful. Despite her prayers, not one of them—not Hathor, not Sekhmet, not even the Queen and Mother of all, Isis—has looked her way.

The fine-woven linen sheet slides across her body as she turns onto her side. The carved wooden head-rest she threw from the bed earlier, when it became clear that sleep had abandoned her again. And yet she must rest; the Living Horus expects her to show him only smiles and welcome, when she would rather give him contempt and the thrust of her deadly blades.

Silver wind-chimes stir, delicate tinkling music played by the first breath of morning. The doors to her balcony are open, so she may smell and taste the song of the river. Anck-su-namun grew up on the banks of the Nile, and its moods are her moods, from lush passivity to angry torrents. Today, though—she sits up, sniffs the air—today has a melancholy to it, river mud and black reeds, the feathers of a white egret and the scales of a crocodile.

She reclines again, kicking off the sheet to embrace the cool drag of the breeze over her body. She lifts her hands, traces her fingers in arcane patterns across her bare skin. A whisper of power tingles through her. She is no priestess, no wisewoman, but she is required to share the bed of the Living Horus, and is thus aware of the boundaries of magic.

The birth of a new day is like life itself: slow in coming, then swiftly over. It is the waiting that torments her. Anck-su-namun believes she’d be happier in the Duat, a place of endless darkness. Monsters are said to lurk there, but there are monsters in this realm, too. Gods and monsters are not much different, in her experience. At least in the darkness, she could hide.

But she cannot hide today. Not after the message she received late last night, after she had returned to her chambers. No, she must prepare herself, then go to the Living Horus and ask his permission to visit the temple of Osiris. He will fuss and frown, but she knows if she goes incognito, dressed as a maid, no one will look twice at her.

Even if he forbids it, she will go. She has a duty there, an offering to dedicate.

She rolls from the bed, lithe and graceful as the dancer she once was. To be a handmaiden to Hathor was her childhood dream, the reason she practiced the ritual steps and complex figures until her feet bled. While her mother played music to accompany her, Anck-su-namun spilled trails of red that darkened to black in the sandy corners of their shared yard.

Her mother had been an accomplished musician, skilled with the lute. Though sought after by wealthy patrons to play at their parties, she was considered too lowly to serve the goddess. She had been proud, confident of her talent and looks. For years she turned down offers of marriage, convinced that she would become the beloved concubine of a rich man, and that a life of luxury awaited her.

It never happened. At the age of twenty-two, she married her most persistent suitor. Anck-su-namun was the only child of the union.

Later, when she was old enough to understand, Anck-su-namun’s mother told her in secret that there were ways to stopper the womb; this she had done to prevent her husband from ever receiving the son he desired.

Anck-su-namun has absorbed her mother’s lessons well. She ensures that her womb is barren when she is summoned to the Living Horus. She knows how to smile and converse, weaving music from words and actions as easily as her mother coaxed music from the lute. Unlike her mother, she has won riches, fear, and respect, yet her heart is empty. As lost as her mother’s ka, unless she makes the offering today.

She pulls a cloak around herself and strides out onto the balcony. The river flows before her, as endless as the cycle that takes Ra from the zenith of the heavens to the depths of the Underworld. The sun’s gaze is upon her; she flings off the cape and opens her arms wide.

No man is permitted to touch her but the Living Horus, but now she lets the sun-god himself explore the contours and secrets of her body. Perhaps other gods see her, too—the falcon, Ra-Horakhty, spiralling high in the sky; Sobek, the crocodile, lurking beneath the surface of the Nile; Thoth, the red-billed ibis picking its way through the reeds.

She lowers her arms. The sun has dazzled her eyes.

Anck-su-namun returns to her bedchamber. She rings a golden bell, and her handmaidens come scurrying in response. A bath is drawn, fragrant with imported oils from the lands beyond the Great Green. A lotus flower floats on the surface. She pushes it back and forth as the maids scrub her body, buff her nails, and wash her hair. They bid her to rise and pat her down with dozens of linen cloths, and then they begin the painstaking task of gilding her from head to toe.

The sun has risen by the time they are done. Anck-su-namun gazes into a mirror of polished silver that a maid holds up for her. She examines the web of black paint fencing off her body. She studies the gilding that makes her look as inanimate as a statue. Her hair has been dressed with gold ornaments; the cobra, Wadjet, rears back above her forehead to spit venom at those who would do her harm.

The irony is not lost on her.

She beckons a maid closer. “Go to the Overseer of Ceremonies and tell him I crave a moment with His Majesty. I would ask a boon of my lord.”

The girl bows and hurries away. The other maids withdraw, twittering amongst themselves, speculating on what favour their mistress might ask of their master.

Anck-su-namun stands quietly, the paint drying on her skin, awaiting an answer. She is confident of getting what she wants. She knows her worth.

She is the favourite concubine of the Living Horus, a slave to a god made flesh. She has everything her mother has ever dreamed of, and yet she has never felt so lonely.

~~~

A headache is spreading its tendrils through his skull by the time Imhotep is done with the second veneration of Osiris. He had hoped that a moment of quiet contemplation with the god would cure the affliction, but the shadowed shrine and the smooth, cool stone of the statue only seemed to draw out more pain.

He knows the cause: The letter from the God’s Second Servant in Abydos. It is manifestly clear that the Festival of Osiris will be a disaster unless Imhotep takes charge himself. Yet he cannot leave Thebes now; the king requires his attendance for several trifling court matters, and only this morning had asked his opinion on the design for a small pylon in the royal mortuary temple.

He closes the doors to the shrine, knots and seals it. His gaze falls on the God’s Third Servant. With Lord Osiris’s guidance and blessing, he had appointed this priest himself and knows him for a conscientious devotee. Perhaps he should send the man to Abydos to act on his behalf. That would put the God’s Second Servant in his place.

Blackness spiders across his vision. Imhotep pauses and lays a hand over his forehead. A poultice of coriander and honey is the usual remedy for this affliction, but he has much still to do and cannot spare the time. His master Seti expects three alternate designs for the small pylon by this evening’s audience, and this must take precedence before the meetings with various nobles anxious about the correct formulae to be written in their tombs. Then the Chief Scribe has begged an interview, and the High Priestess of Sekhmet requests an appointment to discuss grazing rights between the lands held by their respective temples.

And now he must deal with the God’s Second Servant’s incompetence—may Ra curse him to everlasting darkness!

The scent of incense fades, replaced by the smell of humanity—sweat, musk, perfumes both cheap and expensive. Imhotep realises he has strayed beyond the inner courtyards. Acolytes sweeping the limestone steps stare at him; junior priests look worried, as if they think he has come out here to monitor their interactions with the god’s petitioners.

He can hardly tell them he has a headache and is wandering aimlessly. Throwing back his shoulders so his linen robes flutter, making certain that all can see the heavy collar of gold awarded to him by Seti, he strides a circuit around the outer courtyard. His pulse thuds. He is aware of the grains of sand beneath his bare feet, of the sun-baked pavement, the slick of sweat on his skin. Though his head burns, he nods and smiles, directs hopeful petitioners to the attendant junior priests.

The day’s votives line one side of the courtyard. Stelae inscribed with pairs of ears thank Osiris for listening to their prayers. Imhotep’s gaze snags on a stela of gessoed wood. The ears are depicted well enough, but the hieroglyphs are untutored, painted by sheer force of will. He crouches by the votive and deciphers the symbols:

_Thank you, Great One, for taking her into the Afterlife.  
May she finally be at peace._

Imhotep’s fingers itch with the need to correct the untidy scrawl. It is not unknown for the gods to pass over a petitioner’s request because the phrasing is uncertain or the words misshapen.

He stands. Nearby, an acolyte leans on a broom, idly observing the people moving about the temple grounds. Imhotep calls him over. “Who left this stela?”

The youth sweeps the courtyard with his gaze, then points. “The woman in the tattered cloak, with the hood pulled up. See her, master? I think she is in disguise. Her dress is patched and worn, yet her feet are smooth and her toenails painted gold.”

Imhotep nods his thanks. The boy has sharp eyes. Perhaps he should be sent to Abydos to keep watch on the God’s Second Servant. Making a mental note to sound out the lad’s willingness later, Imhotep follows the cloaked woman through the crowd and down a flight of steps to the reflecting pools.

The sun is at its zenith. The pools are still, the surfaces shining like silver. There is barely any shade. A lizard whisks across the pavement, green and swift. The very air seems to tremble under the weight of the midday heat.

The woman stands looking across the pools. She doesn’t dabble her fingers in the water, nor examine her own reflection. She gazes beyond them, towards the river. She is a column of darkness amidst the brilliance of the day. 

He approaches, putting his weight into his footsteps so as not to startle her with a sudden appearance. “Blessings upon you, lady.”

She turns, grief heavy on her slim shoulders. She lifts her hands, fine-boned, elegant, and puts back the hood of her cloak just far enough that the cloth catches on an ornament dressing her hair. Her face is revealed, and his heart is tangled.

Her eyes are red-rimmed, though her mouth is firm and her chin thrust forward, as if daring him to remark on her emotions.

He bows. As he straightens, he catches her scent, rich and evocative. “Forgive me for disturbing you. I wanted— I thought—” The words of ritual come easily to him, but trying to find the words to speak to this woman seems impossible.

She gives him a cool look. “You are the High Priest of Osiris.”

“I am, lady. Imhotep.”

Her gaze continues to rove over him. “They say you are a good man.”

Though her smile is faint, it sends a glow through him that banishes his headache. “I serve Lord Osiris to the best of my abilities. And it is in his service that I came to you. The stela you dedicated…”

“What of it?” She looks wary now.

“The scribe you used was a novice at his letters, I fear.”

Colour touches her cheeks. “I wrote it.”

Imhotep is embarrassed in turn. He spreads his hands by way of apology. “The mistakes are not so great. Errors of phrasing only. It was legible, but for Lord Osiris to hear you… I can have the stela rewritten.”

A faint line appears between her brows. “Would that not alter my prayer?”

The question gives him pause. All his life he has followed the dictates of ritual and service. As a child oblate, he was terrified that any error in recitation would bring the sun crashing down from the heavens, or condemn Lord Osiris to remain scattered, his body in pieces. As he’s grown older, he’s taken comfort in the rites and duties that accompanied his rise to power. He no longer thinks that a missed line from a hymn will damn someone to the Duat, but he believes that the gods require logic and reason in their worship.

But this woman is asking the opposite. Her offering, though incorrect in its wording, was made from the heart. Which form is more pleasing to Lord Osiris?

Imhotep considers. The sun surrounds them with its life-giving embrace. The stones of the temple seem to shimmer. A dragonfly skates over the surface of the reflecting pool.

“It would change in form,” he says at last, “but not in intent. Now I think on it, I see you are right to question me. Perhaps the fact that the stela is different will make Lord Osiris take more notice of your request. I pray that it is so.”

She dips her head and half turns towards the river. “I pray so, too.”

He has been slow to recognise her, but that last graceful movement recalls him to his wits. Realisation shivers over his heated skin. He has seen her before, at Seti’s side. Seen her painted gold and black, displayed as a prize rather than cherished as a woman.

Anger kindles within him. She is here alone, no thought given to her loss or her sadness. Where is the king? Her entourage of handmaidens and guards? Who stands with her to grieve?

“Lord Osiris _will_ hear you, lady.” The promise is bold, but there are ways he knows of ensuring the god’s attention.

“You know me,” she says, her tone flat.

The court is a competitive place. Its ladies usually flutter and flirt, glad of any recognition. This woman, though—her directness is refreshing, as well as unsettling. As unsettling as her beauty, which is not limited to her features or the lines of her body, but which emanates from her very soul. A spark of brilliance in the darkness, a light determined to shine in the blackest of nights.

“I know you,” he says, lowering his gaze.

“Anck-su-namun.”

He looks up. Her eyes are lively, a wicked smile tilting her lips. She’s mocking him, just a little. Imhotep is glad. He has driven away her sadness, if only for a short while. He bows, hand over his heart. “Lady Anck-su-namun.”

“A dancer at court who drew the notice of the king. A woman trained in combat, raised to the position of a bodyguard.” She recites her roles with a silvered tone. “A favoured concubine of the Living Horus.”

“Do not limit yourself,” he tells her. “You are more than those things. Much more. You contain multitudes, each of which deserves to be heard, no matter what they’re saying.”

Anck-su-namun gazes at him as if he is the sun.

“Right now,” he continues, “you are a petitioner of Lord Osiris, and I am duty-bound to assist you.”

“Ah,” she says. “Duty.”

Imhotep nods. “We are all servants of the gods.”

Her mouth twists as if tasting something unpleasant. A flash of emotion on her face. “Some of us are slaves.”

Understanding flickers between them. They look at each other, acknowledging it—but before it can flare and grow, there’s a cry, the sound of running feet, the clatter of weapons.

“Mistress! Mistress!” A young maid hurries across the pavement, wringing her hands, the beads weighting her wig bobbing and clashing. “Oh, Mistress, we’ve been searching for you everywhere!”

Behind her come two muscular Nubian guards, blades drawn.

Anck-su-namun pulls the hood of the cloak over her head.

“I will see you again,” she says, then allows herself to be swept away by her attendants.

~~~

The gods are laughing at her.

These last few weeks, Anck-su-namun has propitiated every deity held dear to Thebes, asking them for the chance to meet with Imhotep again. But to no avail. When even Hathor ignored her prayer, Anck-su-namun took matters into her own hands.

Carefully, she’d drawn upon the network of invisible connections that run through the royal palace. A favourable word dropped into a receptive ear, a casual gift of new linen—it’s incredible how small things grow into something larger. She has built up chains of goodwill, even while perfecting her façade of a woman haughty and cold and untouchable.

It was a matter of a few days before she could arrange things to her liking. Always she must be on her guard, lest the Living Horus should guess what she was about. At each step she had to be sure that she could deny everything, should he ask. But he will never ask, because he thinks only one thing when he looks upon her. To him she is one-dimensional; she exists only to serve his body. It would never occur to him that she has thoughts and opinions and feelings of her own.

But still, she is cautious.

And now her efforts have paid off, she is not in a position to capitalise on them. Truly, she is a plaything of the gods, and they mock her!

Anck-su-namun wants to rage and snarl. In her imaginings, Imhotep is ushered into her presence. He finds her in the garden, lounging beneath a feathered pavilion cooled by the Nile breeze, dishes of sweetmeats and choice wines laid before her. She is wearing a gold sheath-dress in her dreams, but is otherwise free of paint and jewellery. She smiles at the admiration in his eyes and beckons him to join her. They converse, and the afternoon slips away. Soon evening dims the sky, and then…

But that is a daydream. She was prepared for a more prosaic meeting, an exchange of thoughts, a testing of wills. The garden is the ideal location, both private and public. She often spends her days there, listening to the song of the river on one side and the babble of real life on the other. She can hear the ordinary people going about their ordinary lives; hears the guards bantering with friends and sweethearts.

She doesn’t want to return to that life, but neither does she want this one. There must be a third way. It’s said that the path of a person’s life is known by the gods, but she cannot accept that. She does not want her destiny to be written by the Living Horus.

She wants to question Imhotep again. He showed her kindness at the temple, and she believes he understood her. There was a moment when she thought there was something more, a spark like the first glance of Ra in the morning. She would explore that, if she could.

He is intrigued by her, she knows. Not for her looks, so prized and jealously guarded, but for her humanity. He saw her dressed in shabby garments and with the marks of mourning on her face, but instead of dismissing her, he’d spoken with her. Listened to her.

It is a powerful thing, to be heard. To be heard and understood.

She wonders if Imhotep would fill her heart so if he was old and ugly, like the High Priest of Amun. But he is neither of those things. He is attractive, charismatic, his eyes dark as obsidian. His body is muscled and strong, like the labourers working in the fields or the builders constructing the mortuary temple of the Living Horus. She knows him to be thoughtful, intelligent, cautious, and loyal. But does his loyalty lie primarily with his god, or to the king?

She wonders, and would have an answer. This meeting, apparently by chance, was to have satisfied all her questions.

Instead she cannot speak, and he cannot come any closer—for this morning, in the garden, she is engaged in weapons practice with Princess Nefertiri.

Anck-su-namun bites the inside of her mouth hard enough to draw blood. She tastes it, salt and rage on her tongue, and sees the same fury directed back at her from the eyes of the princess.

Nefertiri hates her; it’s only fear of the Living Horus that prevents the girl from throwing down her sais and walking out.

In another life, perhaps they could be friends. But Anck-su-namun’s position at court ensures that she cannot have friends, only rivals. It’s the same for the princess. A woman in this world must use everything at her disposal to grasp for power; for power means freedom. Power means choice.

Imhotep has halted just beyond the portico. The guards escorting him check their steps. Properly, they should detour away from the garden so as not to see the king’s women, but they are men, and curious, and Anck-su-namun and Nefertiri are beautiful and fierce.

Anck-su-namun curses her vanity, even as she meets the princess’s clumsy attack. Their weapons strike with a ringing so loud it startles a dove drinking from the fountain into taking flight. Anck-su-namun pushes back, forcing the sais away with her own blade, following up with a sharp kick.

But she has taught Nefertiri well. The princess scowls, concentration etched into her features as she darts one way then the other. The golden blade swings.

Imhotep steps forward. Sunlight lances down his body.

Anck-su-namun is distracted. Her attention falters. The sais whistles past her head, and a lock of glossy black hair tumbles free.

Nefertiri looks surprised, then triumphant. She thinks she has bested her tutor.

Annoyance fires deep in Anck-su-namun’s belly. She tosses her own weapon behind the princess and launches herself into a series of handsprings and cartwheels. Before Nefertiri can recover, she kicks the girl in the back and sends her sprawling. Nefertiri cries out and drops her sais.

Anck-su-namun retrieves her own weapon, then tosses the princess’s sais into the fountain. Head cocked, she stands over her student, breathing deeply and easily.

Movement beneath the portico. The guards pass by, faces averted, but Imhotep looks at her. Does he smile? Is that a nod of acknowledgement? She cannot tell. The shadows are too deep.

Disappointment and dissatisfaction gnaw at her. Anck-su-namun shrugs them off. She polishes her indifference and spins her sais until miniature sunbursts bounce their light around the garden. Then she drops into a fighting stance and turns her anger on Nefertiri.

“Come, Highness. Let us fight again. And this time, do try your best.”

~~~

The Festival of Osiris is but a few short days away. Imhotep clutches the railings of the royal barge and watches the country slide past. Black silt and red mud, the lush, fragrant green of reeds. Papyrus plants with their feathery fans, and flocks of ibis paddling through the shallows. The desert far distant, then coming closer, only to vanish again. Rugged cliffs and undulating fields. The perfect blue arc of the heavens, with Ra beaming down upon them the day long; the deep, deep green of the river, turned red twice a day and black overnight.

It is a slow progress, the huge royal barge with its sails and banks of oarsmen accompanied by a flotilla of smaller vessels. Princess Nefertiri is aboard another barge reserved for the royal women. The king’s sons occupy a number of boats, zigzagging back and forth with their friends on fishing skiffs, breaking away from the group to go hunting in the marshes.

Commoners come out of their homes to gawp at the splendid sight, or pause in their work in the fields to wave and shout blessings upon Seti and his court. Children run alongside the flotilla, hoping for donatives.

At this point in the journey, they hope in vain. The noble ladies, so generous when the boats first left Thebes, distributing gifts of food and trinkets of paste and gilt to the grateful populace, are now thoroughly bored. They complain of being cooped up like doves, and find nothing extraordinary or beautiful in the landscape or river.

Imhotep had wanted to go ahead of the royal entourage, to make sure that the assurances he’d received from his brethren were correct. Both the God’s Third Servant, who has been working on his behalf at Abydos, and the young acolyte he’d sent to the temple incognito, have informed him of genuine progress with preparations for the festival. The God’s Second Servant has apparently taken to his sick bed after a tumble down the temple steps. Truly, the will of Lord Osiris works in mysterious ways.

Despite the guarantees, Imhotep will be more at ease when they arrive at Abydos. It will be a relief to separate from the earthly power of the king and to spend time buried in the worship of the Lord of the Dead. Whole days will pass when Seti will have no control over him. Days in which Imhotep can devote himself to the rituals of Osiris, and put aside all thoughts of pylon construction, and the decorations for the columns of the new hypostyle hall, and the appropriate placement of astrological symbols on the roof of the king’s tomb.

He will also have less time to devote to thoughts of Anck-su-namun.

Except he knows this is a lie. There will always be time to think of her.

He is aware of Anck-su-namun by their master’s side, the only ranking woman permitted on the royal barge. Her body with its gilding is as sinuous and brilliant as the sunlight on the Nile. A flurry of handmaidens stands close by, ever attentive with brushes and paint. They are not needed; she has perfected a way of reclining so as not to smear the colours.

Imhotep wants to run the gold and black together. Gold for divinity, black for the fertility of Egypt. She is the divine made flesh, Hathor and Sekhmet combined.

She is forbidden to him. To all men, save the Living Horus. But he can look, carefully, so as not to draw the attention of Seti; and he can recall their conversation at the temple. He would like to speak with her again, to hear her views on this world they share. He would like to hear her say his name and smile upon him. He would like—

The river erupts in a great spray of water. Servants and nobility alike scream as a wave strikes the boats, lifting one after the other until even the royal barge is rocked. Ladies tumble from their seats. Men stagger and drop to their knees. All dignity is lost, replaced by fear, confusion, anger.

Deep bellows split the air. Imhotep runs forward to see a hippopotamus, a vast, furious creature, come lumbering to the surface. Its eyes are red and its maw gapes wide, the stench of death emanating from it. This is no gentle giant but a beast primed to destroy those who have disturbed it.

The smaller boats in the flotilla struggle to turn around. There are too many of them. Oars are getting tangled, helmsmen confused by orders and advice shouted from all directions. Passengers scream and pray. Some dive into the seething water and panic. Weighted down by their jewellery, they call desperately for help.

The skiffs are more manoeuvrable. Several of the king’s sons row to assist the drowning nobles, while the rest shout their challenges and whoop for joy. A hippopotamus is a worthy adversary, and fighting one is great sport.

The royal barge lurches to avoid the smaller boats. Senior courtiers clutch their wigs and drop sheets of papyrus. Royal decrees and architectural drawings go flapping across the deck. Benches overturn, and musicians cling to their instruments as the barge groans, heeling to the side then righting itself with a crash.

Water splashes onto the deck, soaking a gaggle of priests. Imhotep yells at them to intone spells for the king’s protection. The Medjai snap to attention. Those stationed at the prow of the barge grab harpoons and hurl them at the hippo.

Wounded, the animal gives a mighty roar and lashes out. It crushes a small boat, sending its occupants terrified into the Nile. For such a large beast, the hippo moves remarkably quickly. It seizes a struggling sailor from the water and grinds its huge teeth down on the unfortunate man.

Blood spreads in the water.

The remainder of the Medjai close around the king. Seti rises to his feet, excited. To him, this is entertainment. He hurries down from the dais, demanding a better look at the action. The Medjai hustle around him, pushing back frightened courtiers who regroup and follow their master, begging his attention. 

Anck-su-namun has been forgotten. She was shoved aside by the Medjai and is standing at the side of the barge, far from the crowd gathered at the prow. On the deck below, the oarsmen struggle to regain their stroke. People are shouting, yelling, praying. On the riverbank, villagers come running with nets and spears. The hippo roars. Everything is chaos, yet all seems quiet when Imhotep approaches her.

“Are you harmed, Lady?” It has been a while since he’s used healing spells, but the incantations come to him now, the ritual gestures tingling power through his fingers. For her, he would tear down the sun.

She turns to face him, and he sees what has happened. Her body-paint has smeared where she was pushed. A man other than the king has touched her.

Imhotep stares at the blush of her skin showing through the smudges of paint on her arm. “For that, he will die.”

“Yes.”

Their gazes meet. Hold. For a moment, they are one.

He shakes himself free of the spell. Glancing around, he spies a terrified handmaid shivering against the wickerwork of the royal pavilion. “You there! Come here, girl. What’s your name?”

She uncurls herself from a ball and approaches, trembling, dashing tears from her face. “Thuya, my lord.”

“Thuya, I have a task for you. It is important, do you understand?” He darts swift glances about the deck until he finds what he’s seeking. Striding forward, he snatches up a box of paint and a brush; returning, he shoves both at the handmaid. “You must repair the damage to the Lady Anck-su-namun.”

“Yes, my lord. My lady.” Thuya is younger than he imagined, barely out of childhood despite her fishnet dress and heavy make-up. She has no control, her distress evident at every bellow and shout. When the royal barge is rocked in the swell created by another of the hippo’s violent lunges, Thuya screams and almost drops the paint. Her hand slips, and the delicate black line she was tracing turns into a blotch.

Imhotep takes the brush from her. “Thank you, Thuya. You did well.” He dismisses her, and she goes to crouch behind a cushioned bench, sobbing in fear.

“Anck-su-namun.”

They both know the consequences of this moment, but it seems inevitable. The little maid pays them no heed, and no one else is watching. Without hesitation, Anck-su-namun lifts her arm towards him.

Imhotep dips the brush into the black paint and strokes it over her gilded skin.

Her breaths come faster. The gold beads woven through her hair shiver and chime. The tip of her tongue slicks the centre of her lower lip.

He must not lose his focus, or he will lose everything. Imhotep holds her the way he holds the statue of the god for the daily veneration. But this is not cold stone, but warm, living flesh. Her scent is not the prescribed combination required by Osiris, but a rich, exotic blend made especially for this woman.

As if sensing his struggle, Anck-su-namun turns her head, giving him her profile. She breathes in deeply, fixing her gaze on the battle taking place in the churning water. “My father was a fisherman.”

He’d known she was of humble origin. It matters not. “I’m sure he caught many fish and provided for his family.”

Scorn flashes over her features. “He was a drunk, and he beat whichever of us he could catch first. Usually my mother. She bore the weight of his many disappointments until she was set free.”

He closes his eyes, murmurs gratitude to the gods for this precious insight. “The stela to Lord Osiris. It was on behalf of your mother.”

She nods tightly, still watching the hippo. “I left two dedications at the temple that day. One to thank the god for releasing my mother to the Western Paradise, and the other a request.”

He thinks he can guess, but asks anyway. “What was the request?”

Her eyes seem to look through him, into his very soul. “It is said the gods work through their priests. If I told you of my need, would you grant me my wish?”

Once again, he fumbles for words before her. “I would do everything in my power to ensure that your prayers reached the ears of Osiris, Lady.”

She turns away, apparently satisfied. Her hair swings back from her throat, and he can see her pulse, beating swiftly.

Ahead of them, the river boils. The smell of blood and wet earth, of death and fear. The hippo snatches up a bedraggled nobleman and shakes him savagely. The man screams, a piteous sound.

Anck-su-namun smiles. She smiles when the man goes limp and the hippopotamus, seemingly bored, sinks itself into the mud-swirling waters, leaving four broken corpses in its wake.

“Osiris answered me within a market interval,” she says. “My father went out fishing and fell asleep in his boat. It drifted, ran aground amongst the marsh reeds. The sun rode high that day. When my father woke, he was addled. Too much wine, too much sun. He tried to pole the skiff out of the marsh, but his limbs were weak and his head ached.”

Her voice is as measured as a storyteller’s, as if she’d stood there and watched her father’s fate. “He fell. Hit his head on the skiff. Bright blood flowed. There was a crocodile, a great beast the length of three men. It came, drawn by the blood. It took my father and devoured him.”

Imhotep doesn’t know how to respond. “You are alone now.”

She looks at him, her chin up, her gaze cool and searching. “No.”

He has made a mistake. He lowers his head. “Of course not. His Majesty—”

“He may command my body, but he has nothing else of me.”

She says it not as seduction, but as a statement of fact. To respond is to bring danger to both of them, but he cannot resist. Imhotep steps closer, their bodies almost touching. The gold paint shimmers, a second skin. A warning.

“I pledge myself to you, Anck-su-namun.” His heart thrills to say her name. “If you have need of me, I will come.”

Her gaze softens. Her face shines, as brilliant as sunlight. The air between them moves. The paint is smudged on her lips, gold bleeding into pink-tan. He glimpses her teeth, her tongue. He bends towards her; she rises up—

But no. There are spies everywhere. And now the diversion is over, the hippo gone and only destruction left in its wake, the king will be returning to his throne and the journey will resume.

If he is to do this, he must be quick.

“Use this.” Imhotep dips the brush again and writes a delicate little incantation on the inside of her arm, across the blemish left by the clumsy Medjai. He whispers the words and has her repeat them. In a glittering of light the incantation vanishes, absorbed into her skin.

“Whenever you call me, I will come,” he promises. He bows low, stepping back to a more appropriate distance, his open robe sweeping the deck.

They are just in time. Seti is looking around for her, calling peevishly for her to attend him.

She pulls on a smile and goes to greet the king, lightening his mood with a jest and a sway of her hips. Seti laughs, then his face changes, thunder rolling through him. He rears back from Anck-su-namun, his finger stabbing at her arm. At the smudge in the gilding that neither Thuya nor Imhotep had covered up.

“Someone has touched you.” Seti’s voice is quiet, but his wrath is louder than the hippo’s bellows.

Anck-su-namun rests her hand over the mark. “An accident, Your Majesty. In the confusion of the attack, I was pushed. It was nothing, Great One. Your guards were right to think only of you. I am unimportant.”

Seti’s beard wags with the trembling of his mouth. His eyes burn. He summons the Medjai, has them line up before him. “Who amongst you dared touch Lady Anck-su-namun?”

The soldiers glance between one another, uneasy. They shake their heads. The captain of the guard apologises: If there are witnesses, let them come forward and speak, but the men have no recollection. They acted on instinct. Their job is to protect the king. They are sorry that the lady was touched, but it was not intentional and they ask the lady’s forgiveness for any suggestion of disrespect.

The king beckons Anck-su-namun closer. “My dear,” he says, “can you remember which of these men assaulted you?”

Imhotep watches her bury her anxiety. Her fingers tighten over the place where he wrote the spell. Perhaps it gives her comfort. She studies the faces of the Medjai as if thinking carefully, but at last she shrugs.

“I am sorry, Great One. I can’t remember.”

Seti swallows his rage. He smiles, takes Anck-su-namun’s hand. “No matter,” he says, then to his chamberlain, “Kill them all and throw the bodies overboard.”

~~~

The sun is slipping away into night, Ra dying and entering the darkness of the Duat to do battle with evil. The sky is a violent red, washing the temple’s walls and columns. Insects send up a chorus, and the desert wind soughs around the pylons.

Anck-su-namun shivers inside her cloak. She had brought Thuya with her, telling the girl that she wished to propitiate Lord Osiris in private ahead of tomorrow’s festival. After the snivelling display on the royal barge, the maid was grateful for the attention. Thuya owes her life and position to her mistress’s benevolence, and is sure to keep her mouth shut about this evening.

The girl has been left at the outer gates in the care of a sweet-talking young acolyte. Both seemed pleased when Anck-su-namun murmured that she was going to pray. Neither of them offered to accompany her further into the temple, and of that she is glad.

This is her time.

Anck-su-namun loosens the cloak, casts it off on the steps of the shrine. Clad in a gold sheath-dress, she runs up into the sanctuary. The last rays of sunlight glint from her gown and glow on the sacred writing inscribed along the barque of Osiris.

The barque stands on a plinth, ready to set sail on the morrow, borne on the shoulders of the priests. The god is already installed on his sacred vessel. When daylight comes, Osiris will process out of his house. As the sun rises, so Osiris will assume the mantle of divine Oracle.

Though covered with a sacred cloth, Anck-su-namun can feel the vibrations of power emanating from the statue of the god. She dares to tip a finger beneath the cloth and touches the cool stone body. She holds her breath, but she is not struck blind or burned to smouldering ashes. Perhaps Osiris recognises her as the concubine of the Living Horus, and forgives her trespass.

Or perhaps he knows her heart, and feels for his High Priest a measure of affection, and is therefore kindly towards her.

Anck-su-namun lowers her impious hand and strokes the length of the barque. A thrill goes through her. Tomorrow, the sacred vessel will be carried out onto the streets of Abydos in a great parade. There’ll be singing and dancing, music composed especially for the occasion, acrobats and jugglers, tame monkeys performing and worshippers revelling, drinking, feasting.

The god will move amongst them, accessible to all. Anyone who has a petition may lay it before the Great One for divine judgement. Whatever the question, the Oracle of Osiris will decide, the barque dipping left for no and right for yes.

She backs away from the barque and touches the place on her arm where the incantation was written. She whispers the words he taught her.

Soon Imhotep comes, as he promised he would. He carries an oil lamp, the flame sputtering then steadying as he sets it down.

Anck-su-namun revels in her power, even as she knows she is powerless against the feelings that swarm inside her like sparrows taking flight. It is a small triumph to see his eyes flare and his smile warm as he approaches.

“My lady,” he says; then, more reverently, “Anck-su-namun.”

They circle each other, drawing closer without the need for more words. The interior of the shrine is almost dark, lit only by their desire and the glimmerings of gold. She has come to him gilded, the patterns of black simple and easy to retouch.

They stand together, almost touching, and breathe each other in.

It feels like a lifetime. Forever.

She kisses him.

He makes a sound against her lips, into her mouth. His hands lift as if to clutch at her, but he checks himself and steps back. Imhotep’s expression is troubled, his dark gaze straying over her as if searching for knowledge, for her acceptance. “I would see you free,” he says, “so you could choose.”

Her heart rises. “I am free now. I choose you.”

He kisses her, and she presses against him. His hands close around her arms, smudging the paint. They kiss in the flickering lamplight of the inner sanctum.

The sacred barque of Osiris thrums its power.

Tomorrow, Anck-su-namun thinks as she winds her arms about his neck, as the paint smears and stains them both. Tomorrow she will ask the Oracle the question about her future.

And then she will make her preparations.


End file.
